


The Tenuous Concept of ‘All Right’

by lurknomoar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post 8.23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurknomoar/pseuds/lurknomoar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Castiel fell, found his way to the bunker exhausted and broken, and upon realising how limiting and grating humanity was, had a sobbing breakdown, trashing the entire guestroom and breaking at least two of his toes? What if Dean Winchester entered, hearing the noise, and the only thing the newly human, crying, bleeding Cas could do was to kiss him on the mouth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tenuous Concept of ‘All Right’

After a few seconds, Dean pulls back with a shocked murmur of “what the hell, dude”, and Cas isn’t sure if it is meant to be a question, but even if it is, he can’t find it in himself to give a coherent answer. Instead, he pulls Dean into a crushing embrace, pressing Dean’s body to his, blindly hoping that it will make him feel just the slightest bit better, and at the same time entirely sure that all it will make him feel is more human. He still feels his heart beat with the senseless, panicked intensity a small bird throwing itself at a window again and again, he feels the body craving for water and nourishment, he feels the body, his body, get unreasonably ecstatic over the way Dean smells, he feels the raw, drained exhaustion that makes his limbs feel unwieldy and heavy, and he feels the pain from his almost-certainly broken toes so strongly, it’s almost ridiculous. He has no idea how humans even manage to cope with this overwhelming sensory and emotional onslaught their entire lives, and he would ask Dean, but he can’t ask Dean, because he can’t talk, because he can’t breathe. He buries his head in Dean’s neck and vaguely thinks that although it won’t make it better, it can’t possibly make it worse. Dean’s arms close around him, hugging him back, and Dean is murmuring something he can’t quite catch, it could be endearments or swearwords or the lyrics to Enter Sandman, and Cas feels tremendously, unspeakably well without the relentless humanity getting any more tolerable, he doesn’t understand how it is possible to be the plaything of such irresistible contradictory impulses, and he wants to shout, he wants to punch, he wants to break something, but instead he holds on, shaking, knowing his fingers clinging to Dean’s shoulders are way too tight and that it will likely bruise, knowing that he is getting blood and snot and tears on Dean’s clean shirt.

For a long time, Cas does not dare to move. His perfect sense of time is gone, and now that he has hurled it against the wall, so is the alarm clock, so he has no idea how much time passed. But after some time, the finds that the shaking has stopped, he can breathe freely, and he had grown weak and pliant in Dean’s arms. He really doesn’t want to look Dean in the eye now, not now when he can’t tell what he is thinking, when he can’t feel the electrical current of emotions crackle beneath his skin, not after having broken down in the most disgusting, pathetic, human way, proving to Dean once and for all that he was an angel no longer, that he was broken and dirty and graceless and useless. But when he manages to raise his head, Dean is smiling. It is not a particularly happy smile, there is a bitter twist to the lips and a sadness in the corners of the eyes, but it is genuine, and what you could call fond. It is a little bit similar to the expression worn by Dean every time he saw Sam broken, but out of immediate danger, and it’s entirely different – softer. What is certain is that Dean is not angry or disappointed, Dean is not leaving. Dean appears to be glad, but he can’t tell, he will never be able to tell anymore. Cas wants to asks him why he is smiling, if he thought what happened was humorous, if he was remembering something, if holding Cas was as frighteningly necessary for him as it was for Cas to hold him, if he was disgusted by it. Instead, he croaks out “I’m sorry”. “S’fine” answers Dean, without thinking. But then he seems to start to think, staring at Cas from the distance of one foot, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. He appears to come to a decision, and Cas almost asks what Dean concluded when Dean leans forward and presses a brief, close-lipped kiss to Cas’. The kiss, while pleasant, is not especially arousing, and it does not send the same wave of scorching lust over Cas he felt before, instead, it feels like what he used to feel before being shackled to this body – something constant, and certain, and despite its smallness, unbreakably strong. A thing that is perfect and whole in itself, like a pebble. Or a marble. For a second after breaking the kiss, Dean looks into Cas’ eyes, nods a little, then stands up, like the conversation is over on his part.

“I’ll go get you some food. You just stay there for a few minutes, all right?” Cas nods dazedly, and as Dean evidently expects him to answer, he mumbles an ‘’all right’. The exhaustion that overwhelms him doesn’t even allow him to sit up properly as Dean hurries out of the room. His body is so beyond his control that he can barely make his eyes focus on what’s in front of him, and his mind feels slow, fogged up, and entirely pre-occupied with the meanings of the word “all right”. Maybe when humans say it, they don’t mean “I am absolutely well mentally and physically” but something closer to “as far as I know, I’m not going to die in the next five minutes”. He is not sure how much time passed, but Dean is back, carrying a glass of water and a plate with a sandwich on it, cut in half. Instead of making Cas get up, he sits down next to him, handing him half the sandwich. Cas shakes his head weakly, he feels unprepared to explain the nausea that hits him at the thought of having to eat to sustain his bodily functions. Dean shrugs and takes a bite of the sandwich himself. Cas watches him eat, and tries to understand how can it be that something he finds acceptable, or even magnificent in humans (in Dean), can terrify him so much when it has to do with his own body. He takes a tentative bite out of the other sandwich, chews, swallows. He takes another bite, chews, swallows without even tasting it. Then he tries to cram the entire thing into his mouth, swallowing it down without chewing, his body demanding nourishment even as he is almost choking. Dean’s hand is on his shoulder, Dean says “hey there, slow down a bit” and Cas tries to, he has a sip of water from the glass of water Dean gave him, then a gulp of that glorious, clean water, then he has to stop himself again, feeling like a foolish child, like a toddler. He swallows two of the little white pills Dean gave him, then he finishes the rest of his sandwich slowly, with Dean’s hand still on his shoulder. The imprisonment in his body has not gotten any less painful, and although the food and the water made him feel better, it is not comparable to healing his vessel with his grace. But Dean is sitting close to him, warm and smiling and alive, a hand idly kneading Cas’ shoulder, and while his angelic awareness of Dean is gone, its place is filled with something he is not sure how to explain. Something like being comforted, but also like being trusted, something like sitting in the middle of a thunderstorm, closing your eyes and pretending that lightning can’t kill you, something like stubbornly, wilfully ignoring how all the world’s a dirty, starving, bloated, screaming place, and paying attention only to what one can see (or what one can touch) to remain sane. Alive, in the middle of a constantly dying world. Maybe this is what 'all right' means for humans.

The pain in his knuckles is almost gone, and even his toes feel tolerable – the pills must have started working. He finds it hard to think, to move, or even to speak, he can feel his eyelids drifting closed. “Hell no” growls Dean, shaking him. “You’re not gonna sleep here, this place is a mess. Come on.” He obediently follows Dean down the corridor, even though he isn’t sure his legs are capable of holding him up, and he needs to be steered by the shoulder. “But this is your room.” He points out once they arrive, which Dean doesn’t even dignify with an answer. Instead he walks to the cupboard, picking out a worn grey T-shirt with AC/DC emblazoned on its front. Cas clumsily struggles out of his shoes, his pants and his shirt, he is somehow glad that Dean isn’t helping him, at least with this, at least until he realises that getting undressed alone is not something a former angel of the lord should count as any great achievement. The new T-shirt is very soft, very warm, very Dean, and Cas has to resist the temptation to stroke the fabric. “Go to sleep before you pass out standing” says Dean, pushing Cas towards the bed. “Aren’t you sleeping?” asks Cas, confused. “Not yet” says Dean, picking up an ancient Walkman from the table and sitting down on the bed. Cas does too. “Seriously man, you are not going to sit on the covers, are you? You must know how to actually get under the blanket, you were married for god’s sake!” “This is different” murmurs Cas while sliding into bed. “That’s not what I… yes it is.” On the other side of the bed, Dean is sitting on top of the covers, untangling the headphones of the Walkman. Cas knows his body is stronger than him right now, and that he will go to sleep in a few minutes, no matter what he does, but first he wants to tell Dean – he doesn’t even know what he wants. He glances at Dean, and grabs his hand, lying on the blanket. Even though he’s not thinking straight, he knows how much this hand has killed and how much it has saved, he knows how it looks holding a knife, a match, a rifle. But that isn’t why it is important right at the moment, it is important because it is a part of Dean, Dean who is sitting a few feet from him just to keep him company, just being there being Dean, and that is why Cas presses a kiss to the knuckles. Dean looks at him, and he seems broken and amused and loved, and says nothing, and Cas who knows he is the one to break, amuse and love him, says nothing either. He lets go of the hand in the utter (and entirely unfounded) human certainty that it will be there when he wakes up. He drifts off to sleep to the sounds of Metallica seeping out from Dean’s headphones.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to come say hi, visit me at @quietblogoflurk.tumblr!


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